Bang
by Mondmaedchen
Summary: And it's okay that more and more of his skin is getting scarred and scarred as he plays with his shiny silver paint brush, making more and more red paint that stains his skin and scars his skin and taints his skin with something more evil than the dark innocence he uses to paint with his shiny silver brush but it's all okay and it's okay and it's okay because he's okay.


He's falling, he knows, into something dark, and something terrible, and something he knows he needs to try and get out of but he can't and he can't and he doesn't try because _no one cares and it isn't worth it and it isn't worth it and he can't help it, he can't help the sadness and the anguish and the depression and_ it's all okay, it's okay, and it's okay because he's okay, he's okay, and it's all okay though it isn't.

His friends don't seem to notice when he puts makeup on to hide the _dark, ugly purple bags_ under his eyes and when he fidgets with his hands or when he _wears long sleeves that hide his wrists_ , or that his _ribs stick out and that he's tired most of the time_ but it's _not like he cares_ that _they don't notice_ because he doesn't want them to notice so that he can _keep up the mask_ , the facade, the _perfect illusion_ he's built for himself.

He doesn't know why others can't see it, the pain behind his smiles, the despair in his eyes, the _fear,_ and the _crying for help as he spirals down into this and help him help him please-_

And then he's back to normal, all smiles and laughs and happiness 'cause it's okay, and it's okay, _and it's okay and it has to be okay or he'll fall apart._ He'll be okay, and they'll be okay, and he'll be okay, because it's all fine and they don't notice when he _drags the silver shiny metal across his arms,_ creating _beautiful red art, making lines that ooze red and drip red and he's okay because this isn't bad,_ it's an outlet for everything.

More than once he's considered it, on a railing, on a building, in a ship, in the water. With the shiny silver he loves so much, and with the ropes that lie in his drawers from the time that he used to tie them around his neck and imagine simple _darkness after squeezing-_

But he's okay now because nothing's wrong and it _doesn't matter that he squeezes his neck every night_ and it doesn't _matter that he has red scars, pleasurably painful scars from the shiny silver he takes with him everywhere and uses more often than not and it doesn't matter because it's all okay and he's okay and everything's okay._

And it's okay that more and more of his skin is getting scarred and scarred as he plays with his shiny silver paint brush, making more and more red paint that _stains_ his skin and _scars his skin_ and _taints his skin with something more evil than the dark innocence he uses to paint with his shiny silver brush but it's all okay and it's okay and it's okay because he's okay._

And as the time goes by and he can feel the gap in between himself and all his friends widening and he feels as if he can see the distance stretching out in front of him with the silhouettes walking away from him, _farther and farther away and he runs and runs and runs and he runs but he can't catch up, he can't, he can't, he can't and he can't and he feels so tired_ and so _broken but then he reminds himself_ that _it's all okay, he's okay, it's okay, everything's okay and always will be okay._

It's his birthday and he waits in a cafe for his friends, waits and waits and _waits and he waits but they never come._ He isn't surprised, they've forgotten the last couple birthdays. But as this one goes by and the clock strikes midnight for the next day his heart _breaks and he's numb_ as he walks out of the cafe, cake in hand, and as the _tears fall, rolling down his cheeks and hitting the asphalt like drops of rain_ he _smiles,_ he smiles and he _laughs because he's okay and it's okay that they forgot because they're still friends, right, and maybe they'll remember next time_ and then he's laughing again and he's laughing and laughing and _laughing and he doesn't know when his laughter has turned into sobs._ But it's okay. _It's okay because he needs it to be okay, he needs to cling onto the last threads of sanity he has and he needs to be okay and he needs to think that he's okay or he'll die-_

And as more and more time goes by and he's not sleeping anymore and his eyes grow cloudier and he retreats into himself more, and _they don't notice any of it, not as his smiles get faker and the makeup gets piled on heavier and the sleeves get longer_ but it's okay because they don't have to notice, and he's okay because it really doesn't hurt him that they don't notice and _it's fine, he's okay, he just needs some confirmation that they're really still there._

He has it in his drawer, the thing he has thought about using, the ghastly, beautiful thing that could make him happy, that could make his suffering end and make everyone around him happy.

And then it happens, one of them gets hurt and they're fussed over and taken care of and given food and water and love until they get better and their ankle heals and they can walk again. And then he gets hurt, and no one helps him but _it's okay because he can take care of himself and it's okay because the agony in his chest and the hurt in his heart and the tears are all not real and it's okay because they'll walk in through the door any moment and he'll be loved and he'll be fine and it'll all be okay because they'll be here and they'll be here-_

They never come.

Once he's all healed and he's finally lost all of his reasoning and his sanity, he takes the beautiful, dangerous paintbrush and sits at the base of the tree where they all used to gather together and he dials their numbers and rasps out that _they shouldn't come to the tree because he's okay and he's okay and he's fine and nothing's wrong and he's okay but it's not okay and he's so sad and lonely and he feels like he shouldn't exist but he's okay_ and he hangs up to their panicked voices saying that he should _hang on, they'll be there soon but what's the point?_ He's just fine and he _doesn't need them and he's okay and it'll all be okay soon_ and he takes the channel of their voices and _throws it,_ and the tears flow freely as it _shatters, just like his heart._ And then he takes the beautiful, dangerous instrument and _looks at it-_

And he can hear them screaming, their frantic voices begging him to _stop, they can talk about this, there's no need to do something so rash_ and he _laughs_ , a maniacal sound coming from his tearstained face and his cracked voice and he _raises the instrument to his head_ and he stares as they run to him.

He doesn't understand why they're crying, why they're scared, because it's all okay, it's all okay, _it's all okay and it's all okay and it'll be okay in a moment._

He feels the cool metal against his temple, and he sobs again and he _sobs and he laughs at the same time_ as he _stares at the way their legs are flying and their eyes are widening and tears are falling_ and he doesn't _understand_ because _isn't everything okay?_ And _wait, it'll all be okay in a moment, just wait…_

And they're screaming for him to stop and he _smiles_ as _tears flow and he thinks it's all okay because it is all okay and everything's okay_ and they're still running, _still screaming for him to stop_ and he cries and laughs and smiles and tilts his head, _questioning why they're so sad when everything's okay?_ And he watches them run, get closer and closer as his fingers move _because it's all okay_ and then there's a click and his _eyes meet with their distraught frantic ones and-_

 **BANG**


End file.
